Piano Lessons
by noturgurl
Summary: Olivia wanders into the lab one afternoon to find Peter playing the piano. Curious, she asks him to teach her a thing or two. Rated M for later chapters.
1. After Hours

**This story has been in the works for the past couple months, I had just kind of left it sitting on my harddrive due to lack of inspiration. But this awful hiatus has filled me with the need to write Peter/Olivia, because I miss them *wink* And because my friend Nathalie bugged me relentlessly! Haha!**

**This is completely un-beta'd. I know, I know. Bad writer, me. But I hate sharing my work before "publishing" it. It's embarrassing. So excuse the grammar and possible tense errors. I proof read it a few times just to make sure though.  
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**Disclaimer: I own nothing =( Please don't sue me.  
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**Spoilers: very slight ones for "The Equation" and "Power Hungry"**

**As always, read and enjoy!! Commenting doesn't hurt either ;)**

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The halls of Harvard University are strangely empty. The hollow sounds of her heels clicking against the tile are louder than normal. Stopping at the stairwell she kicks off her shoes, not really knowing why but she felt like she was disturbing the stillness that so rarely graced her life. It was nearing sundown, the latest she'd ever been at the lab. Without the unintelligible conversations of students and the lacking sound of Walter humming the place felt almost… foreign. Different.

She had wanted to give Ben's file to Walter, if only just for the sake of keeping him informed, included. A way of thanking him for his bravery today, she supposes. In some strange way she knows that this would interest Walter more than a thank you card or a "job well done". Maybe she should have brought a box of ice cream sandwiches as well. The thought makes her smile.

Pushing through the heavy wooden doors leading to the lab hallway, she pauses as the soft strains of someone playing the piano touches her ears. Slowing her gait, careful not to disturb whoever it was playing, Olivia leans against the door frame, smiling in wonder at Peter's relaxed posture as he studies the keys before him. This isn't the first time she's heard him play, but she's never got a chance to just watch him, unnoticed. It was a rare occasion that he ever got time to himself. No thanks to her. Funny, she thinks. She assumed he would spend his free time sleeping or downing a bottle of gin. Not sitting along alone in his father's lab playing concertos for a silent audience.

The melody is sad, haunting almost, in a way that makes her think of rainy afternoons in the fall, curled up with a good book and a hot cup of chamomile tea. She can't remember the last time she was able to indulge in such niceties. The tempo spesds up, his fingers dancing lightly across the keys, rocking in time with the music. His back is to her, and she's glad for the anonymity. In some way she almost feels embarrassed by her voyeurism on such an intimate moment. At least, it feels intimate to _her_. Music had a way of doing that to her. Like an unspoken confession or a smile between lovers. A secret.

She doesn't realize the song has come to an end, the final note hanging high in the air, until the sound of Peter's laughter cuts through the silence. The blush comes instantly.

"You can come out now, 'Livia."

Feeling all of 12 years old she pads slowly over to the piano and leans against the instrument. Peter grins up at her from his seat. "Nice footwear." If even possible, she flushes again, cursing him for having such an effect on her. Out of pure habit she balances her weight on her left foot, rubbing the inside of her ankle with her right. Peter leans forward, only slightly, taking in her oddly casual appearance, not even attempting to conceal the once-over he gives her. Nonplused, this time at least, she swats him playfully, pushing him to the side so she can have room on the bench.

"I came over to give Walter a file but…" she trails off, the otherwise empty lab answer enough.

Peter shrugged. "He didn't want to come back to the lab after I grabbed him..." A troubled look passed over his features. For as angry and resentful as Peter might have been towards Walter for leaving him as a child, Olivia knows it bothered him to have to send his father back to St. Claires. Whether Peter admitted to it or not. Recalling the void grey walls - which reminded her far too much of too many Hitchcock movies - and haunted feel of the hospital, Olivia doesn't much blame Walter for never wanting to go near the place again. Much less spend the night. For a moment she feels guilty for having put him through such an ordeal - it had to be bad enough that he didn't want to return to the lab - but when she thinks of Ben, racing to meet his father, she knows they did the right thing.

Besides, she thinks sadly, they all had their ghosts. Regardless of where they were.

Letting out a low laugh, tinged with annoyance and more than a little fatigue, Olivia taps lightly on the ivory keys. The deep chord it strikes rings strangely in her ears. She doesn't like it very much.

Beside her, Peter pushes a hand through already tousled hair. "You're thinking much too hard about something." He props himself up on the frame, watching her. "About the case?"

Olivia just nods, giving him a half smile.

The case. She wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Letting out a shallow breath she turns to face him, watching him carefully, suddenly very aware of their proximity. His hip is pressed solidly against her own. For a moment, she can't help but think of John, and she catches herself before she starts to cry. She's so sick and tired of crying. It isn't going to bring John back, and it sure as hell isn't going to change anything. Isn't going to make the hurt go away or change the fact that he was a traitor.

Peter's no longer looking at her, and for some reason she wishes he would. She wishes he would just look at her and smile, lie to her, tell her that everything is going to be okay. A wiser Olivia would have reminded herself that at the end of it all, she really knows nothing about the man sitting next to her. And yet, she knows he is her friend. Of that much she is sure. No matter how reluctant the circumstances.

"Play something else."

She's tired of thinking about the case. About Walter and John and her warped new sense of reality. Whatever the hell reality was. She isn't quite sure she knows where to draw that particular line anymore.

Peter smiles, nodding once, comically stretching his back and his fingers. Always the performer. She's grateful, more than grateful, for the change of pace.

"What would you like to hear, m'lady?"

Olivia snickers, shaking her head. "Something different. Something you've written."

Peter cocks an eyebrow at the less-than-ordinary request. "You assume I've actually _written_ a piece of music before."

"I'm sure a guy like you, what with your authority issues and all, has _something_ that's completely your own stored somewhere in that genius brain of yours."

Peter makes a face. "And _I'm_ pretty sure there was an insult buried in there somewhere." Olivia can't help but grin.

"Well, go on, Monsieur. Let's hear it."

He mumbles something about being pushy under his breath, nudging her with his hip and causing her to push right back. She's about to open her mouth to tell him to behave when he starts to play.

She watches, almost hypnotically, as his fingers move lightly along the keys. Slow, yet rhythmic. Admittedly, music was far from her forte, or even her pianissimo for that matter, but there was no denying her attraction to talent. And it certainly didn't help matters that said talent came in the form of a 6-foot blue-eyed genius with a penchant for pushing her buttons.

As a child her parents had wanted her to take up an instrument, anything to get her away from the television. Her mom insisted on the piano, her father said the guitar. He even bought her one for Christmas when she was six. A Fender. Six string. Naturally, she grew tired of it when she couldn't even strum out a G chord. Her fingers weren't strong enough, and no where near the length required to do the instrument justice. So like any bored child she put the guitar under her bed and never bothered with it again.

Now she wishes, perhaps, that she had at least given it a chance.

"Here," Peter says, voice nearly a whisper, "You can play the accompaniment."

Stilling for a moment Peter reaches across her lap, startling her from traveling any further down memory lane. He grins at her sudden jump. "Don't worry, it's painless. I promise." He winks, the corners of her mouth mirroring his own and turning up in a smile. Grabbing her left hand he places it on the keys, playing the dutiful part of 'teacher' and pointing out the different keys beneath each individual finger. 'Agent Dunham' would have quickly told him that she already knew the name and secondary name of all the keys, flats, sharps, treble, and bass included. But 'Olivia' decides she much prefers feigning ignorance, both to the unneeded lesson and the way his tongue snakes out between breaths, habitually wetting his lips.

She blushes, hiding it behind a veil of hair.

"Watch me," Peter instructs as he plays out the simple line, slowly at first, then slightly faster. Olivia watches, taking in every note, giving it the same attention she would a profile or a piece of evidence. Categorizing each movement of his hand, the duration and volume of each newly struck key. Perhaps if Peter had been her music teacher she would have given it a greater effort.

"There. Now you."

Olivia bites her lip, uncertain. "I really don't think I should butcher your song with my lacking musical abilities."

"Nonsense. If you can work for the government you can play the piano." He laughs at his own poorly delivered joke, his breath catching a couple strands of her hair.

"Is _that _how it works now?" He gives her a look of complete conviction, nodding once in agreement as if to say 'of course it is". "Well then by all means," she laughs, flicking her wrist at the instrument, "Teach away."

"All right then, but in order for this to work-" There's a moment of confusion in her posture as Peter rises from the bench and moves to stand behind her. And even though she knows fully well that he's nearby, it doesn't stop her from holding her breath when she finds the solid weight of his body pushing her closer towards the piano, her newly-tailor pants sliding easily against the grained seat. All her good intentions of sprinting for the door leave as Peter wraps one arm about her waist, lifting her effortlessly and settling himself behind her until she's all but sitting in his lap. "-you're gonna have to get a bit closer."

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_Keehehehe. I'm so evil. I know ;)_

_But if you hit that pretty green button below I promise I'll give you more ;)_

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	2. The Lesson

**Thank you guys so much for the kind reviews!  
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**As promised, I bring you the second chapter of _Piano Lessons_. I'm not overly familiar with the ways of romance and attraction, but I did try my best. So please forgive my inaccuracies. Again, this is un-beta'd. I'm currently looking for a beta, so if anyone wants the position please let me know. I would be so grateful! I don't write very often so I promise I won't overwhelm you ;)  
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**Warning: Entering into light M-rated territory here.**

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**Previously**:

"_All right then, but in order for this to work-" There's a moment of confusion in her posture as Peter rises from the bench and moves to the stand behind her. And even though she knows fully well that he's nearby, it doesn't stop her from holding her breath when she finds the solid weight of his body pushing her closer towards the piano, her newly-tailor pants sliding easily against the grained seat. All her good intentions of sprinting for the door leave as Peter wraps one arm about her waist, lifting her effortlessly and settling himself behind her until she's all but sitting in his lap. "-you're gonna have to get a bit closer."_

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_Oh my god. Ohmygodohmygod._

What is he saying? Is he even still talking?_ Just breathe, Olivia._

There has to be a logical explanation for the heat pooling in her stomach.

Drawing in a shaky breath she prays that he can't feel the tremble running along her spine. If she were any closer to him it would be difficult to tell where one stopped and the other began. Another experiment Walter was sure to be keen on.

_Shit_, she thinks, suddenly feeling intoxicated and heavy. Anyone could walk in at any moment and find them doing…

...What? Sitting precariously closer than partners (no matter how reluctant) probably should be? About to wreck the delicate balance they've been so damn careful not to break?

She'll take any of the answers if only it means he can touch her like this every day.

"Relax," Peter orders, chuckling airily into the slope of her neck. Sure, she thinks sarcastically, no problem. Easy as pie. "I've got you."

Against perhaps all her better judgment, Olivia feels herself obeying as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth to keep the smile from forming. Peter catches the subtle gesture, as if even her smallest nuances could be kept secret from him for long, and replaces her hands against the ivories.

"All you have to do is keep the count in your head. Here." His hand comes to rest just above her knee, tapping out a steady rhythm against her skin. "This piece is in standard 4/4 count. So there's four beats to each measure," he explains, his hand continuing the beat.

Olivia bites down harder, the only thing she can think of doing to stop the strangled gasp from escaping.

What were they doing? 'What the hell did _he think_ he was doing?' was the more appropriate question.

By all reason she should be swiftly reminding him that FBI doesn't allow for "fraternization" among partners. Hell, the FBI barely allowed for anything _resembling_ a social life. But were they even considered partners? Was this even considered a form of fraternization, she wonders. Why the hell is she thinking about standard protocol right now?!

Peter's hand is still tracing a steady rhythm against her thigh, tapping out a beat that was no where near the racing tempo of her pounding heart. Her blood is rushing so fast she can feel her pulse, a quickening allegro, pumping beneath his hand.

_Fuck_.

If this wasn't fraternization – Hell! It was practically a seduction scene! – she didn't know what was!

Peter laughs against her once more.

"You're shaking, Dunham."

Another amused smile.

_Shit_, she inwardly curses, annoyed that her body has betrayed her less-than-calm exterior. She takes a deep breath, which only serves to fuel Peter's amusement.

She wants to hit him.

But right now she doesn't quite trust her limbs to do anything they're supposed to do.

"Nervous?"

This time she does hit him; a playful elbow to the ribs. Peter feigns attack, grunting and pinning her arms between her own body and the piano. He's stronger than he appears. Of course, Olivia isn't overly surprised at this revelation. She's seen him take down a man in a running tackle. In six inches of snow no less.

It makes no sense to her, but she can't help but laugh along with him.

"Should I _be _nervous?"

His chest moves against her shoulder in a shrug.

"Perhaps." He releases her from his grip, his hands returning to the keys to tap out a syncopated jazzy bar. "But I assume you're armed."

Olivia returns the shrug, this time watching his hands intently. Feeling brave, or perhaps foolish - the two were so closely entwined when it came to them – Olivia places her hands directly over his, laying her fingers along his in an effort to at least _feel _ as if she were playing the music as well.

"I left my gun in the car."

"Well at least I know I won't get shot."

"Don't be so sure about that, Bishop."

Peter smiles, enjoying the little game she has apparently decided to go along with. Testing the waters, he leans in closer until his breath moves along her clavicle. He speeds the music up and she laughs, still watching their fingers bounce along the keys. She tries to follow his movements, enjoying the almost-predictable pattern he was drawing from the instrument.

"I thought you were going to teach me how to play?"

Was she pouting?

"I am teaching you."

Their hands are still moving, keeping the tune, the rhythm beginning to wind down. His, expertly designed to command the instrument beneath them; hers, ever more determined to match his skill, yet quite content in the illusion.

A smile slides across her lips, despite her best efforts not to. For all her reasons against it, she is actually enjoying this more than she cares to admit. After all, Olivia Dunham, FBI extraordinaire and hard-line independent should know better than to become so attached to 'the job'. Because that's what he is: the job. Regardless of any lack of credentials. She knows she's playing with fire here, and that it would only end up burning her in the end. But if there is one thing that Olivia Dunham is, it is stubborn. To a fault. And perhaps a bit of a masochist as well.

After all, she tells herself, even the worst scars could heal over time.

As if by habit, she presses herself into him, the need for that ever-illusive friction overriding her need for composure. If Peter is at all affected by her less-than-subtle gesture, he doesn't show it. His hands never lose their rhythm as they continue to play.

It annoys Olivia.

Since day one she has endured Peter's little habit of pushing her buttons – the right ones, wrong ones, and all the others in between. She'd be damned if she let him keep the game one-sided.

Olivia shifts her body slowly, stretching herself against him, pretending to want a more comfortable position, when in fact the exact opposite is true.

Peter may have started this little game, but she's gonna finish it.

This time, she feels it. His quickened heartbeat fluttering against her back; the tell-tale signs of his arousal causing her to blush.

Not for the first time since meeting Peter Bishop she curses the barriers between them. This time in the form of vintage denim jeans and an Anne Taylor pants suit.

Olivia swallows a moan as Peter's mouth slides along the shell of her ear. Her muscles go lax and he leans into her.

Fuck, it was _way_ too warm in here! And they had _way_ too many clothes on.

The still-steady rhythm coming from the piano is beginning to annoy her. It is much more calm and collected than she feels and she wants him to feel just as unraveled as she is becoming. If they're going to make this mistake, they're damn well going to do it the right way.

Without warning or hesitation she removes her right hand from atop his, pushing and tangling her fingers through his hair. God, she has wanted to do that for so long. Olivia smiles at her small victory as Peter stumbles on the rhythm, his fingers losing the key. The pressure she applies forces him to bend his head nearer.

While his hands resume their play she is content leaving hers where they rest.

For now.

"This is a dangerous game you're playing here, 'Livia," he growls. The sound reverberates against her cheek and she decides that she rather enjoys it. She smiles.

The music is still playing, still continuing along a failing ledger, but it seems somehow louder in her ears. Much closer than it was a moment before. More intense. Suiting, she thinks. Peter's hands continue to move along the keys. He smells like ivory soap, musky cologne, and something distinctly… male. Olivia's eyes slide shut, hands abandoning their engagement to trace themselves along his forearms. She shivers, despite the warmth of the lab.

Reclining her head against his shoulder she breathes along his neck, feeling the pulse, a steady staccato, beneath her lips. Peter groans; the melody slipping even further. Driven partly by a rush of feminine power and a need to hear him tearing at his seams she bites down, only just, on his earlobe before drawing it into the heat of her mouth and sucking lightly.

The music comes to a deafening halt.

Up until this moment Peter has maintained some bare semblance of control. But he doubts that even the most put-together man could be able to resist now. And no one had ever accused him of being such a man.

Least of all where Olivia Dunham was concerned.

In one quick movement Olivia finds herself being lifted from Peter's lap, her arms instinctively reach for him. With a cacophonous clang of dissonant chords he sets her atop the piano case, parting her legs with a casualness she isn't expecting and steps between them.

He's staring at her mouth as if he could devour her in a moment, and the thought sends a wave of heat along Olivia's spine, settling in the pit of her stomach and below. She watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, only his darkened eyes betraying his arousal.

Her gaze slips lower, surveying him, memorizing him from this new point of view, and she can't help the blush that creeps into her cheeks.

No, his eyes are not _all_ that betrayed him.

Truth be told, she had expected this moment to be rough and frenzied. A blur of barely conscious thought, unfinished declarations, and a floor full of discarded clothing. But for as rushed as it seems to her, she's shocked by the overwhelming sense of calm that she feels.

Olivia's no idiot. A bit naïve and headstrong at times, but never stupid. She knew that they would eventually end up here, right here. Well, perhaps not exactly 'here', in this lab, atop the Gershwin piano, but definitely _here_, in this moment. With Peter. If she was going to be completely honest she would say that she had known since Iraq. Since he first called her 'sweetheart' in that perfectly condescending tone so well-suited to him.

She wants to laugh at the absurdity, but Peter's hands – _God_, those hands! – begin to climb up her calves, tracing out the slim contours, coming to rest on her thighs. He's watching his own movements, like an artist trying to figure out his next brush stroke or a complimenting refrain. Dangerous it may be, but for all the reasons she can think of for why this should not be happening, not one of them is able to move her.

It would be foolish of her to say that she hasn't thought of this hundreds of times before.

In the beginning it started out as a not-so-subtle annoyance at her need for him. A need for his access to Walter, for his underhanded information, and even his own unaccepted genius. Hell, there was even a need for his rational thought, which kept even her flightiest notions grounded.

It was when that need, that ever-professional connection, turned into something more akin to want and desire, that things began to change. She wants him, she admits. And wanting him is a _choice_. Yes, she still needs him, in the same way, and even different ways, than before. But wanting him… that's something she isn't wholly prepared for.

And now, even when the uncertainty of his presence is still in the forefront of her concerns, she _needs _him. Like a woman. Not like a cop or a coworker needs their partner or their source. No. This type of need was much more basic. And far more consuming.

"You're thinking too hard again."

It comes out as an accusation, and she smiles in spite of it, biting her lip. Ever the tease.

Cocking her head to the side she studies him for a moment, taking in his disheveled appearance and the copper tint of his hair in the fading sunlight. Her still-bare feet brush against the exposed skin of his hips where his shirt has risen in their haste to their current position. He's less than a foot in front her and yet it somehow feels much too far. Tossing him a come-hither smile she wraps her legs about his waist, drawing him closer.

His eyes darken in response. Peter had always figured her to be the aggressor type, but he had only ever been on the professional receiving end of such pursuit. And this, he reminds himself, is not exactly the definitely of "professional".

She meets him eyes with a challenge, and he knows, in an instant, that this particular lesson was long since finished.

"So make me stop thinking."

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_Only one more chapter left to go! I haven't written it yet so feel free to toss any suggestions my way ;)_

Reviews are also good inspiration as well =P


	3. Repeated Refrain

First off, thank you guys SO MUCH for all the lovely reviews. I read and love each and every one of them.

Second, I'm SO SORRY for not getting around to finishing this story earlier. I had a difficult time figuring out an appropriate ending and finding something that felt right for them and for me. Many many thanks to Xeen Cyr and Nathalie for hashing this out with me. You guys are awesome ^^

Hopefully the new episodes will inspire a new story 'cause I love writing this pairing. They're just too much fun. Anyway, I'll stop talking. Enjoy!!

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**Previously:**

"_You're thinking too hard."_

_It comes out as an accusation, and she smiles in spite of it, biting her lip. Ever the tease._

_Cocking her head to the side she studies him for a moment, taking in his disheveled appearance and the copper tint of his hair in the fading sunlight. Her still-bare feet brush against the bare skin of his hips where his shirt has risen in their haste to their current position. He's less than a foot in front her and yet it somehow feels much too far. Tossing him a come-hither smile she wraps her legs about his waist, forcing him closer._

_His eyes darken in response. Peter had always figured her to be the aggressor type, but he had only ever been on the professional receiving end of such pursuit. And this, he reminds himself is not exactly the definitely of "professional"._

_She meets him eyes with a challenge._

"_So make me stop thinking."_

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That's all it takes for whatever restraint and composure they have left to be thrown aside and forgotten. Olivia needs him to touch her; to feel his hands, his mouth, his breath against her skin; to remind her that something in her crazy, fucked up world is real and solid and _here._

When he kisses her it is hard and commanding, just as she knew their first kiss would be. He doesn't ask her permission or wait for the invite. As if it was ever needed. She should have known he would deny her no request. In fact, she had been counting on it. His hands are buried in her hair, pulling her so tight she knows it should hurt, but she can't feel anything more than the pressure of his mouth against her own, his lips setting an exquisite rhythm against hers, claiming her breath as his own.

Without thought or hesitation her hands find their way to his shirt, frantically making sloppy work of the stubborn buttons that refuse to cooperate with her. She groans in frustration against him and Peter laughs. She can taste his amusement - if that's even possible - and she returns the smile.

"I hate button-down shirts."

"I hate pants suits."

Peter halts her oncoming retort with a kiss, drawing her lower lip into his mouth, biting it just so. Olivia melts. God, why had she waited so long…

Nimble fingers make easy work of her dress shirt, and he flicks the starched white material aside carelessly. He has other destinations in mind. Peter's not sure how she does it, but she's somehow made unfussy white cotton more alluring than any secret Victoria may have. She's all sex and propriety, opposite ends of a dueling spectrum, and everything he wants to devour. It's not the first time he's seen her in such a state of undresses. Hell, he's seen her in far _less_ than this.

But never before had it come with a lust-filled gaze and tousled hair, mused from his own fingers in a desperate attempt to pull her closer. His body tightens, watching the shallow heaves of her chest, the flushed color of her skin. God, how long had he dreamed of this moment? How many nights had he laid awake at the thought of her, wondering if she would kill him slowly of quickly if he ever just grabbed her and kissed her? Too many, he answers. Too many restless nights and unsatisfied urges that he had never been able to sate on his own.

This is the last place they need to be, he thinks. Though he's sure she's quite unamused at being man-handled so often in the past hour, Peter sweeps her up from the piano and carries her towards the couch, setting her to the ground carefully. Olivia doesn't refuse, just watches as he stands before her, unbuttoning his shirt.

"Wait."

Peter stops, suddenly afraid that she's going to change her mind and tell him all this is all a very big mistake. But she doesn't. Instead, she brushes his hands aside, searching his face for some sign of reassurance.

"I want to do it."

The urgency that had overridden them a moment earlier is replaced with a heavy feeling of intensity. Like an ignited fire that falls into a slow burn, frustrating in its rolling intensity. This time, her fingers cooperate. She takes her time, gauging his reactions, wanting to know his every habit, every detail. Peter Bishop was altogether a mystery to her, and she had never been able to resist investigation. Never one to sit back and observe, Peter's hands trail along her sides, brushing along the outside of her breasts, his arms circling her.

She sucks in a breath, willing her legs to remain beneath her.

Not five minutes ago they had been going at it like two love-starved teenagers in the back of her dad's 69 Chevy. Now they can't seem to slow time down enough.

There's a triangle of freckles dotting her right shoulder, marring the otherwise flawless skin. He lowers his mouth to taste them, pressing a slow trail of kisses along the column of her neck as her hands trace along the hem of his jeans. When he bites down gently on her shoulder his name gets caught in her throat and she groans. The sound goes straight to his groin and he vows to make her say his name, just like that, for as long as she'll let him.

"You have too many clothes on," he protests, laughing as he kisses her once more.

"Well I guess you'd better do something about that then."

Peter just shakes his head, deciding that he's never had this much fun on a 'first time'.

"You're so bossy."

Olivia winds her arms around his neck, enjoying the feel of the lean muscles of his shoulders.

"And don't you forget it."

She lets out an uncharacteristically girlish scream as Peter grabs her by the waist and throws them onto the couch, pulling her onto his lap. The not-quite-tackle takes her by surprise and she can't stop the laughter from bubbling up.

"Peter !--"

Her protest is stilled by his fingers, which have begun easing the zipper of her pants down with an audible scrap of metal on metal.

"Shhh…"

It was his turn to take the lead. Motioning for her help she lifts her hips off his lap, allowing him to push the cotton pants over her hips, his hands skimming the curve of her ass as he frees her legs from their constraints, adding the article of clothing to the growing collection on the floor. He can feel her heat through the thin satin of her panties. His tongue sneaks out to wet his lips in anticipation. Olivia follows suit.

_Just breathe_, she reminds herself.

Without speaking or breaking his gaze, she reaches behind her back and undoes the clasp of her bra. She swears she can hear the audible rush of cool air that replaces the heated material. Taking a breath to steady herself she bites her bottom lip, suddenly nervous, and slides the straps off her shoulders. First the left one, then the right.

Peter doesn't move, but she can feel his growing arousal stir beneath her. Despite it all, she blushes.

Her voice interrupts the heavy silence.

"If you're waiting for permission, you already have it." She smiles, dipping her chin in sincerity. "You always have."

Needing no further encouragement, Peter grins and captures her mouth with his. The heat of his bare skin against hers is almost more than she can stand and she moans into the kiss, rubbing herself against him without reserve, finally finding the friction she was looking for.

He tastes of single malt whiskey and the sticky sweetness of cotton candy, a combination that should make her laugh but only fuels her onwards. He is unlike anyone she has ever tasted, ever given herself to.

He reminds her of no one. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Peter takes his time, giving and taking at even pulses, his tongue tasting and exploring her mouth. She feels better than anything he has ever touched. His hands and mouth play her like the artist he is, plucking at all the right strings and hitting all the perfect chords. She wishes she could return the favor.

Olivia leans into him. They breathe against, into, in rhythm with each other. Her lips are swollen and quivering, all the frustration and haste leaving her exhausted. She feels heavy and complacent, but happy, despite it all. And she kisses him once more, smiling as she does, telling him more than her feeble words ever could.

It's warm.

His hands are warm, insistent, moving in tempo with his mouth, which she's quickly discovering she can't quite get enough of.

For a moment she thinks of the passages from those clichéd two-cent novels Rachel was always so fond of, and she wonders if the authors weren't on to something. Because right now, right _now_, Peter Bishop was becoming nothing short of an addiction.

Could she risk such an addiction?

It doesn't take long for the absurdity of it all to hit her. And when it does, Olivia begins to laugh, not bothering to conceal it or even worry that Peter would think her strange for laughing at such an inappropriate time. But it doesn't matter because before she has a chance to apologize Peter's laughter collides with her own. Funny, she thinks, that she had never heard him truly laugh before now.

His lips are swollen and tinged an incriminating shade of pink that suits him more than she would ever tell him.

The silence feels thick, almost heavy, a seemingly endless fermata that tries vainly to keep the chorus from truly ending. Yet for all its suspended purposes, she's never felt more comfortable. Peter's hands rest on her hips, his sun-tanned skin a stark contrast against her own pale features.

"You're going to tell me this can't happen, aren't you?"

It should have sounded rhetorical; more of a statement of fact than a voiced acceptance of defeat.

Pursing her lips Olivia gathers her composure, and giving him a soft smile, stands to her feet. Peter watches the sudden crescendo of modesty rise in her cheeks as she slips her shirt over her head, not bothering with – or perhaps forgetting about – her discarded bra.

Her eyes never leave his own as she silently dresses, pulling her hair out from the collar of her shirt. Letting out a sigh she stands still, and holds out her hand to Peter. An offering. Of sorts.

His brows knit together in confusion.

Wasn't she just telling him 'no'?

Olivia dips her head, nodding once and extending her hand further. Her bottom lip pales as she bites down in silent anticipation. Peter shakes his head. It's always a surprise with her. No one else, save for Walter –and insanity was an entirely different matter – kept him on his toes like Olivia Dunham.

That's for damn sure.

Olivia lets out a breath she doesn't realize she's holding as Peter takes a hold of her hand and allows her to pull him to his feet. The kiss comes as a surprise. He was expecting a hasty apology and a 'let's just forget about this moment of weakness' speech, but he's more than pleased that it doesn't come.

_Shit_, he swears, _she's going to be the death of me._

It leaves as quick as it had come, and before Peter can pull her closer to him, she's retreated just out of his reach, eyes glued to the floor beneath her feet, which suddenly feels as if it's about to open up and swallow them whole.

He almost wishes it would.

"We can't do this here…"

And just as quickly as it had begun, it's over. No more refrains.

Olivia's voice trails off as Peter drops his head, laughing ironically. His chin drops to his chest and he lets out a breath, somehow hoping she can't read the disappointment he knows is written all over his body. But he also knows he'd be a fool to think that she can't read him like an open book. He scratches his neck out of nervous habit and scrubs his hand over his face.

God he could be such a fuck-up sometimes.

Forcing a grim smile he finally meets her gaze.

"Well damn."

She tries to continue, hiding her rising annoyance behind her open palm. "Peter…"

Peter silences her expected explanation with a raised hand. He shakes his head.

Bastard.

"You don't have to explain it, Liv. I get it."

Yet even for all his annoyances, Olivia can't help but smile. _Does he really have no idea_? she wonders. For the first time since they began this little tirade of theirs, Peter is completely lost and unsure. It's written all over his face, as plain as the music notes he never seems to follow. Spying his discarded shirt lying haphazardly on the floor, Olivia scoops it up and offers it to him. Peter doesn't look at her, only accepts his shirt begrudgingly and slides his arms into the sleeves.

Stupid buttons.

Once again surprising him – she was so full of them today – Olivia steps forward and brushes his hands aside once more, taking over the task she had previously tried so hard in undoing.

She can feel his breath along her face, his eyes studying her hands, her fingers, as they press along his chest, dressing him.

"You know," she laughs, flattening his hands against his shoulders, "for a genius, you can be incredibly dense sometimes."

His gaze flies to hers, waiting for an explanation.

"When I said that we couldn't do this here, I meant _here_. In this lab."

Like any good detective she lets her words sink in for a moment, and when they register in his eyes she can almost taste the accompanying heat that sinks into her stomach. His hands finally, _finally _touch her, possessively pulling her against him.

"But my place is only a few minutes away," she whispers, voice heavy with anticipation. Peter groans, eyes sliding shut, thanking any and every deity he can think of for this undeserved turn of events. "And I'm pretty sure a bed would be more… _conducive_ to my intentions than this couch."

She presses against him even closer, if it's even possible by this point.

"And trust me, I _do_ have intentions."

Olivia doesn't know whether to throw her plans to the wind and just screw it all right here – all pun intended – or laugh at the uncharacteristic brazenness she's suddenly found within herself. It doesn't matter anyways as Peter makes the decision for her, chuckling richly and wrapping his arms around her.

"Well I certainly hope they're less-than-honorable ones, Agent Dunham."

"Are there any other kind, Mr. Bishop?"

Fixing her with that tongue-in-cheek grin that should require a license to hold, Peter kisses her softy, fingers still playing a melody against her skin.

"I knew there was a reason I stuck around."

If she had known that composing the first movement of Aria Seduction with Peter was going to be this irreverent and playful she would have tried it the first time he ever charmed her with that damned jazzy number he claimed was so well-suited to her.

Without another word, she snatches up her jacket and brief case, not bothering to hide her smile as Peter's hand slips into her own, pulling her towards the door.

It's nearly dark in the lab now, the sun having grown tired of its voyeurism and sinking beneath the tree line, drowning the lab's sole occupants in shadows.

And as the door closes behind them, the piano sits, unoccupied and silent.

* * *

_Reviews are like Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul ;)_


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